Isabelle Watson
by Grace R Lupin
Summary: Meet Isabelle Watson. An artist, a violinist, and John and Mary's thirteen year old daughter. But it's not all fun and games. Having a teenager is not easy. Luckily Sherlock Holmes is the best godfather EVER. (Well. . . Mostly) And he's there lend a hand with his best friend's closeted daughter.
1. Happy Birthday Uncle Sherlock

Isabelle was sitting in her room. What is she doing you might ask? Watching youtube of course. There was nothing better to her than fangirling over Phan, and being the antisocial freak that she was. But today was going to be a little bit different. It was her godfather's birthday. She had been working on a painting of him for ages, and she really hoped he would like it. But you can never be to sure with him. It also didn't help that he didn't think birthdays were worth celebrating. Typical him. Not understanding the sentiment of the day of ones birth. A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts.  
"Yes?" She asked politely.  
"Have you got Sherlock's gift wrapped, dear?" Mary inquired, opening the door.  
"Yeah, mum. It's on the table." She replied.  
"And have you made him a card?" She further inquired.  
"Yeah, mum." She said rolling her eyes.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yes! Yes. I'm sure."  
"Alright, no need to snap."  
"Sorry."  
"We're leaving in two hours, so be ready. You're still in you're pajamas." She shut the door before Isabelle got a chance to reply. She would of course be on the internet until then. It was one thirty and she already had her lunch. And she had the gift finished and wrapped. The card was carefully taped to the top. There was nothing more that she felt that she needed to do. And with nothing more to worry about she turned back to her laptop. Oh youtube, you son of a bitch.  
-TwoHoursOfPhan-  
"Isabelle!" John called. "It's time to go!"  
 _Crap._ She thought. _I'm still in my pajamas._ She rushed to her dresser, and ripped of her camp-half blood onesie. She then threw on a shirt that said "what is my life" and a pair of baggy, black shorts. She ran out of her room, while putting her hair into a ponytail, yelling, "Coming!" She arrived in the by the front door seconds later.  
"Here," Her mum handed Isabelle her present to her godfather. "Now let's get going." John smiled and nodded. He was exited to see his best friend, though he had texted him earlier that day. The family of three climbed into their car and drove of to 221b.  
-BoringCarRide-

Sherlock was interrupted by a knock at the door. He heard Mrs. Hudson let the guests up. He felt himself smiling as his best friend, his best friend's wife, and his goddaughter enter the room. Isabelle ran up to him and hugged him, like an energetic toddler. This caught him off guard, but her quickly returned the hug. (Something he only does for her and John.)  
"Happy birthday, Uncle Sherlock." She handed him a carefully wrapped rectangle, with a white card sticking to it. _It must be a picture._ He thought. He looked back to his goddaughter, who was smiling expectantly. And then to John, who had sat down in his chair, with Mary in the other.  
"Happy birthday, mate." He smiled cheerfully and handed Sherlock another carefully wrapped object.  
"Thank you," He practically forced the words out. It felt weird for him to say that for some reason. Isabelle took a seat on the armrest of John's chair. He sat on a wooden chair from the kitchen and paused as he almost started opening the present from John and Mary.  
"Well, go on," Said John. "Open it." The detective obliged, tearing at the blue paper. He already knew it was the new microscope he had told him about. And he beamed as he pulled it out.  
"Yes!" He exclaimed. "Thanks."  
"Your welcome." The married couple said in unison.  
"Open mine, now." Insisted Isabelle excitedly. "I've been working on it for ages."  
Sherlock flinched when he heard her say that. He had never seen any of her art, so he had no idea if she was any good. Most people have average skill, so he prepared himself to fake a smile. (Something he only did for children.) If she was as adult he would have been brutally honest. But John would be mad at him if he called his daughter's painting trash. He carefully peeled the card off of the blue paper, as if he would detonate a bomb if he made one tear in it. It said: Happy Birthday on the front and on the inside it read:  
From one crazy human to another, I hope you're not bored on this special day.  
P.s. I would love to play the violin with you some time.  
He would argue that the the day of ones birth was not a 'special day' but he didn't want to correct what she _made_ for him. So he just smiled at her, and tore into the wrapping paper. She has put way to much tape on this. He prepared his fake smile and took a lo-  
His jaw dropped. It was a painting of _him_ playing his violin. The brush work was amazing and the lighting was perfect. He felt like he was looking into a paint mirror. The only thing he needed to do now was to put that into words. But he was speechless. All he could muster was a small, "incredible."  
"What is it?" John asked. "Let me see, Sherlock." He handed his friend the picture, and he saw the look of amazement on the doctors face.  
"Do you like it?" Isabelle asked reluctancy.  
"No." He said seeing the devastation in her eyes. "I love it. It's incredibly done, and it's beautiful."  
"Thanks." She blushed.  
"She's been working on it for a few weeks haven't you, dear?" Mary asked.  
"Ages," She nodded. And Sherlock asked something he never thought he would ask.  
"Would you like to play violin with me next week?" He inquired.  
Her face lit up, "Yeah!" She looked to her parents.  
Mary said, "I don't see why not."  
"Next week it is then," He said.  
Maybe Sherlock was wrong. Birthdays are sort of a 'special day.'


	2. What do you mean I can't go?

Here we are again, sitting on Isabelle's bed. What's that you say? Is she on the internet? No no no. . . Ok yes. But it's important this time! What's so important you ask? Goodness, you took the words right out of John's mouth. . .  
"So Bell. . . What's so important this time?"  
She rolled her eyes at her nosy dad. She mumbled something he can't quite hear.  
"What?"  
"I said. . ." She kept mumbling.  
"I can't her you, Bell," He said patiently.  
"Anime," She spat out.  
"Ohhh I get it," He tried to sound cool. (Please don't, John.) "So anyway, about violin with Sherlock. . . I've got tell him that you can't go." She took her face away from the screen.  
"Why not?" She pouted.  
"Mrs. Hudson has just called me and said that he was having a," John paused, not sure what to say. "I guess you could call it a 'Sherlock moment'."  
Isabelle was confused.  
"What do you mean?" She asked.  
Her dad gave her a really nervous look. "Every once in a wile he. . . Has a bad day with a case, and he doesn't usually take it well."  
"I can handle it!" She insisted. "I've known him for 13 years."  
"Than you know that all he needs is some relaxation, and sleep." John lectured. "I'm going over there later to check on him, but violin is canceled for today."  
"Fine," She said in an obviously disappointed tone. It was so obvious that even Anderson would have been able to tell.

John left the room felling guilty. But it was for the best. He had missed all of his daughters concerts because of cases. And he never stopped to hear her practice. He wasn't sure if she was good enough. He knew that sounded terrible. It really did, but Sherlock would give her harsh critiquing. It wouldn't matter if she was his goddaughter or some random person, he would be painfully truthful. No. Matter. What. He just was. And John wasn't about to risk letting his only daughter get insulted by his best friend. He did the right thing, right? It was for her own good, right. . .? He remembered the devastated look on Isabelle's face, like a hurt puppy. He sighed, walking his and Mary's room. She was reading on the bed.

"John?" She looked up. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," He hated lying to his wife's face like that, but he felt too guilty to say anything.

She rolled her eyes, "You can't fool me with that, I know you too well, John.

"I'm really fine, Mary," He faked a laugh.

"Come on, darling. Now I'm intrigued," She smiled, putting her book on her bedside table.

"It's noting," He insisted, hearing the pure desperation in his own voice. Mary got up, and walked over to him, grabbing his hands gently.

"Come on, love." She pressed on. "I know something is bothering you. Just tell me what it is. Please."

He sighed, coughing slightly, "I lied to Isabelle about something."

She sat them both down on their bed, "Is this about the violin thing?" He gave her a small nod, looking down.

"Why don't you want her to play with Sherlock?" She inquired. "This is a good thing for them, especially him, John."

"I've never been to any of her concerts, I've never heard her practice, what if Sherlock doesn't think she's good enough?" He asked desperately.

"Is this really about Sherlock thinking she's bad, or are YOU just worried that she's no good? Because I've been to all of her concerts and she loves that instrument to death. She's been playing for eight years, John. She's good." Mary declared.

"But what if she isn't good enough for Sherlock?" John asked again. "You've seen him. He's to honest for her."

She gave him a stern look, "If you seriously don't think she can handle him after thirteen years, than you're wrong. You may not have seen, but they get along really well. It's adorable. He's her godfather, John. Let them have this." John didn't know what to say. . .

"Go to her," She commanded softly.

(Back in Isabelle's room)

Why did he have to cancel something so important to her, just because he godfather was a drama queen? She could handle him. She's always been able to handle him. Like when she was is fourth grade and he was throwing a fit like a three year old. She calmed him down after a wile. And when she was five her dad was fighting with him for some reason. They were yelling a lot and she and her mum broke it up right away. She could handle him. Of course she could bloody handle him, she was thirteen (about to turn fourteen). She was is eighth grade. She KNEW him. So what if he was having a 'moment'. She had those all of the time. . . quietly without anyone knowing, but she still knew. A knock at her door interrupted her train of thought.

"Come in," She called. It was her dad. Yay. He walked in awkwardly.

"I need to talk to you," He stated simply.

"What is it now?" She asked. Have you come to cancel my birthday party? Or maybe you're here to keep me from seeing my godfather? Oh wait, silly me. You've already done the second one already."  
"Don't talk to me that way young lady," Her father demanded. "And that's not why I'm speaking with you."  
"Enlighten me then," She requested.  
"Look I'm sorry about before. Sherlock's fine," he confessed. She didn't say anything for a few seconds. Or was it minutes? Or hours? She couldn't tell. All she knew was that he lied to her.  
"I knew it." She finally said.  
"You knew he was fine?!" John asked.  
"No," She admitted. "I knew you didn't think I could handle him. You also don't think I'm good enough at violin for him, do you?"  
"Of course not," John retorted. "It's just that he's really harsh and brutally honest and-"  
"I know!" She cut him off. "And I know, because I know HIM. I've known him for thirteen years."  
"I know that you know. It's just that, . . Well you know."  
"That words is starting to sound weird, quit saying it," She said.  
"My point is," He rolled his eyes. "You can go." She jumped up from her bed.  
"Really?!" She beamed.  
"Yeah," he nodded. "I'm meet you out in the car." And at that he left, not bothering to close the door behind him. He already heard Isabelle scrambling around to get her violin in its case. He smiled to himself. One thing was for certain with Isabelle. She really loved her godfather.


End file.
